


I'm Too Sexy For this Song

by dancinbutterfly



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Adultery, Airplane Sex, Airplanes, Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Fashion, Alternate Universe - Modeling, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Atlanta, Casual Drug Use, Crack, Drinking, Gen, Glitter, M/M, Modeling, New York, Paris - Freeform, Seriously what was I thinking back in 2009?, Smoking, fashion - Freeform, glam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:45:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk is an up and coming model for Star Fleet Modeling Agency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Too Sexy For this Song

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2009 and just found it again. I dont remember where the idea came from. No, seriously, I must've been high when I got this idea. There's really no other explanation. But, modeling. *Hands* Hope you like if you havent read it already.

Jim Kirk's parents are legends in the fashion industry, the very best in the business. But then, with his father meeting that kind of end, all twisted metal and blood, and the whisper of illicit substances? It's hard not to end up legendary. So exactly no one is surprised when he shows up at Star Fleet Modeling Agency at sixteen, a stolen pack of cigarettes rolled into the sleeve of his white t-shirt. 

The signatures on the release forms are obviously forged. But then, everyone at Star Fleet knows Winona is in Europe, ignoring the wreck of her life. So no one questions it.

Jim sits with his dirty Converse resting on the receptionist's desk. She rolls her eyes at him when he lights a cigarette in plain view of the no smoking sign over her desk. He's gone through three already when Barnett emerges from his office.

He snatches the lit butt from his hand and puts it out on the bottom of Jim's shoe. "You'll give yourself wrinkles. Trash the rest and come inside."

Barnett's risen to the top of the fashion industry because he doesn't fuck around with his work and because he knows talent when he sees it. And James Tiberius Kirk is all the best things about George and Winona. And Barnett can see all the things about them that discovering them had done for his career twenty-five years ago in the boy. He's the best kind of canvas — dynamic and strong, with just enough attitude to make him a star. 

"You quit smoking today."

"Or what?"

"Or we don't sign you. You play by our rules, or we don't work with you. You finish high school or—"

"I get it."

"Do you? Because this isn't a game. It's a job. And if you can't be professional, you should leave now."

"I got it."

"Then let's get started."

~*~*~

Jim knows that most of his first jobs are earned on sheer novelty. So most of his first bookings are made with older designers who remember his parents, or brand new ones with morbid senses of humor. 

He's good, though. He knows he is. A natural. A face that looks good in heavy costuming and make up, and even better clean and simple. And he does okay on his own. Not fantastic, but he gets by. It's better than it was hanging out in Iowa and waiting for life to start.

He's barely eighteen and he's starting to get a reputation of his own. Talented. Smart. Obnoxious, but in the way that industry types seem to flock to, moth to flame style.

And then he takes a flight out of San Francisco with a layover at Atlanta-Hartsfield International before heading on to Paris. He's in coach on standby and they put him next to a guy who would be hot in a grad-school kind of way if he weren't drinking like a fish and plunging head first into a nervous breakdown.

"You know, if you really need it, I think I can get one of flight attendants to drop an oxygen mask for you."

"Yeah, so I can breathe normally, because inhaling bottled air's so much more normal than the recycled crap they pump in here. Ya know those oxygen masks? They've got a euphoric effect. So you won't mind so much as you hurtle out of the sky into the ocean or a nice big field. Forget burning death, just keep on breathing."

"I've got a few Valium in my carryon if you want one. You need it way more than I do."

The guy narrows his eyes at him. "How old are you?"

"Old enough," Jim says with a shrug, because the guy's hot and he hasn't been laid in almost 48 hours. And he looks like the type who could do with a quality blow job. "You want to meet me in the bathroom after takeoff?"

The man's eyes go wide and he shakes his head. "Seriously, kid."

"20," Jim lies. He's been lying up about his age since he hit puberty and people don't question it. They like the lies better. "How old are you?"

"Old enough to know better."

Jim grins and the guy smiles back. It's strained and kind of awkward, but ten minutes after the fasten seat belt sign goes off, Jim's out of his seat and ducking into the closest bathroom. His neighbor follows all of two minutes later.

Jim ignores the wedding ring. He ignores the residual fear. He really doesn't pay attention to much of anything but the way he kisses and tastes like Jack Daniels, and fucks like goddamn stallion. It's a new one for Jim; he's never been fucked in an airplane bathroom. It's cramped and he ends up with three of the guys fingers in his mouth, sucking hard so he won't scream when he comes. 

The man follows him seconds later, digging his teeth into Jim's shoulder. It leaves a mark, but he figures makeup can handle it if he needs it for the runway show. It's worth it for the way his forehead rests against the back of Jim's neck.

"Damn, kid, I think you rattled my bones loose."

Jim laughs. "Not all of them."

"You came damn close." He presses his lips to the teeth marks he left and they're both quiet for a moment, leaning against each other. "What's your name?"

"Jim. Jim Kirk. How about you, Bones. You got name?"

He strokes his hand over Jim's arm a few times. Jim can feel the warmth of his skin and the cool metal of his ring. "Bones is good, Jim."

"Yeah," Jim agrees. He's fucked married people before and he knows better than to push his luck. "I like it." 

"We should get cleaned up and back out there."

"Or, we could stay in here where you don't have a window seat and you could fuck me again."

Jim can feel Bones shake his head against his skin. "Seriously, how old are you?"

Jim turns in Bones' arms and kisses him. He hoists himself up onto the tiny sink, pulling Bones between his legs, and they manage one more round before they part ways in Atlanta. 

And then from Atlanta, there's a flight to Paris. And Paris is fashion week, finally, after two long years of work and paying dues. And at fashion week is Christopher Pike. 

Jim pretends he can't see him while he's walking, but everyone knows who he is, and what he can do. He's a captain of industry and a creative genius. He's the brains behind Enterprise Designs and after twenty-five years, his company is still keeping up with Dior and Versaci. 

Jim has no way to know that Pike's on the phone with Barnett before Jim hits the end of the runway. All he can see is that the guy is here and so is everyone else who really matters in this business.

He comes out afterwards, wiping eyeliner off with the back of his hand, and runs into a tall man with short, clipped, black hair in a suit that's worth more than he makes in year. And now, thanks to the full body impact—it's covered in the body glitter that the designer had insisted all her male models wear.

"Fucking—shit," Jim mutters, trying to catch himself before he topples over. He barely manages and the dark haired man just watches, impassive.

"You appear to be in quite a hurry. Surely taking the time to avoid accidents would speed your progress more effectively."

The man speaks the carefully precise English of a fluent, yet non-native speaker. Jim shrugs and shoves a hand into the pocket of his coat. It's fucking freezing now that he's outside and all he wants to do is get to the hotel room he's sharing with that new Russian kid and come down from the adrenaline high he's been on all day.

"Look man, I'm sorry about the suit. But look, have your people call my people and we'll work something out."

"The suit is of little consequence. You are James T. Kirk with the Star Fleet Modeling Agency, are you not?"

"Yeah. Listen, I don't get paid until the end of the week, so just send me the dry cleaning bill through my agency, okay"?"

"Your offer is appreciated, but unnecessary. I can more than afford my own laundry services. I merely wish to discuss a business matter for my client."

"Oh, yeah?" Jim asks, wishing against the cold that he still smoked, that he had a pack on him because really, it's fucking cold as hell and how can this guy not feel that that?

Instead, the man pulls out a card and hands it over. Printed on the rectangle is S. T. Spock, Esquire. Jim flips it over and finds a European number that could've been based in Turkmenistan for all Jim knows and an American phone number with a New York area code.

Jim taps the card against his lip, letting his warm breath bounce off the cardstock and back onto his nose. "Okay, Mr. Spock, what can I do for you?"

"My client, Mr. Pike, has a professional interest in you. He would like to meet with you before he departs from Paris."

Jim nearly drops the card. He fumbles it before shoving it into his pocket. "Christopher Pike. The Christopher Pike?"

"As far as I'm aware, there is more than one Christopher Pike in existence, one of whom, I believe, is a fairly prolific author. However, if you are referring to the Christopher Pike of Enterprise Designs, then I suppose yes, it is indeed the Christopher Pike."

"No shit?" Jim laughs, his breath puffing white in the cold air.

The man lifts a thin, oddly-plucked eyebrow. "No. His exact words were that he liked your energy. He would like to hire you for a campaign and requires that he meet you before finalizing his decision." 

Jim just nods dumbly. If he can manage not to fuck this up, a go-see with Christopher Pike is the next best thing to stardom. The check is huge and the exposure is even bigger. He can finally stop doing smalltime runways in places like Dallas or Chicago and stretch his wings.

"I shall contact your agency with the specifics of the meeting so as not to conflict with your previous work commitments."

"Yeah. Thanks, man"," Jim says, grinning from ear to ear and fighting the urge to hug the stony bastard for being the bearer of that kind of good news. The glitter's only half the reason. He's pretty sure the guy would break whatever social norm he's following and hit him in the face.

Another eyebrow quirk. "You are welcome, I suppose." 

Jim takes the blocks back to the hotel at a run. He's had a good week. Good sex. Good show. Good luck. It's one for the record books, but there's only Pavel — fragile and beautiful in an androgynous sort of way, and younger at fifteen than he can ever remember being — to share it with. 

They're not really friends, although Jim has taken it upon himself to make sure that the kid doesn't get chewed up and spit out. And Pavel's happy for him, a big smile lighting up his face and drawing a matching one out of Jim. But it's not the same as telling someone who you really want to know. 

It takes Jim a long time to think of someone—anyone—he really wants to tell, and all he can come up with is that guy from the San Francisco flight, Bones. He doesn't know his name, but he wishes he did because yeah, the guy's married, but Jim's got this feeling, that they could be friends. And not 'fuck around every few months and leave before they wake up' friends either—the real kind. 

But chances are one in six billion of him ever running into that guy again. The thought takes some of the wind out of sails. But only a little. Because he's still got Spock's card in his pocket, two runways to walk tomorrow, and a meeting with Christopher Pike.

~*~*~

They meet at a café near that huge fucking cemetery where Jim Morrison is buried, because that is apparently just how Christopher Pike conducts business. And what's Jim going to do, complain? He's just trying not to come off too nervous or too cocky in front of the man who could make his career. It's tricky. He's not used to giving a shit. 

"I knew your father."

"Biblically?" Jim blurts before he can stop himself. Wouldn't surprise him. Pike's about the same age his old man would be if he hadn't died. And he's read his family's press clippings, so he knows where he comes from.

But Pike just smiles into his coffee. "You remind me of him. You've got the arrogance. I'm just wondering if you've got the heart he did. It showed up in his films. I'm trying to figure out if yours will as well, or if the resemblance is only skin deep."

Jim takes a deep breath. He can handle that. He can. He be whatever he fucking needs to be to get this break. "I can show whatever you want, Mr. Pike."

"Chris."

"I can. Chris."

"I'm sure you'll try."

"No," Jim says, leaning back. "I will. I can do whatever you want me to. And I'll do it the best you've ever seen."

"Cocky."

"I like to think of it as confident, sir."

Pike smiles again, broad and full of amusement. "Let's hope that you can live up to that, son. Because if you're half as good as you think you are, I can make you a superstar in four years."

Jim tilts his head and smiles back. "Four years? I'll do it in three."


End file.
